This morning when I went into the forest to collect the words
I found that they were grey and damp from the cold autumn rain.
I picked up an armful of dark phrases from the forest floor, and carried them back to the house.
I set them there beside the hearth and wondered once again
how can I possibly light a fire or write a poem without kindling or paper or the possibility of matches?
That was the moment you poked your head in the door and said no matter that it was 53 degrees, you were going to dress in winter clothing and sit with your rainbow hat and the prayer beads out on the deck.
Why do I need reminding that I too can aspire to some kind of peaceful start to the day?
Or at least, I can sit calmly, my hands covering my heart, my mind like a squirrel flittering over the rocks, and me lifting my eyes and staring out into the battleship-colored clouds.